She thought it through, and when the next results came in, printed out more young faces. She had ten now, ten she considered mid to high probability, from Boston to Baltimore.
“I’m going to set up another—start with Mina’s category, but take out the physical appearance factor. Follow me here, objectively, okay?”
“All right.”
“Richard Troy intended to sell me off, but not like Mina, for instance. I didn’t have the looks. Don’t,” she said quickly. “You see me the way you see me. But reality is, I sure as hell didn’t have the looks. I was bony, scrawny, awkward. They’re called Slaves or Pets, depending.”
“I’m aware,” he said flatly.
“I’d have fit one of those. You don’t need to invest so much, so you can sell for a lot less, but it’s steady profit if you’re just snatching them. And I need to start working on younger. Say, eight to eleven, all categories. If we’re going in the right direction, an operation like this would probably diversify. Say some of the potentials for major sales just don’t pan out, you sell them as a Slave or Pet or whatever the assholes call them.”
She could see, actually see, him work to set his personal feelings aside. Sometime, she thought, some way, she’d show him what that—just that—meant to her.
“All right, well then, a good foundational business plan might have what you’d call their private label—very high-end—and work down to the more accessible. You might say store brand.”
“That’s what I’m saying.” He just said it better. “So I want to work on that, going with the basic pattern.”
“I can help with that.” He walked to her when she didn’t respond. “Now you don’t.” Taking her hand, he pulled her to her feet. “We get through this together, remember? And I’m better at this sort of thing than you.”
“Faster doesn’t always mean better.” But she shrugged as he led her to the table. “Maybe better and faster. I’m thinking maybe Peabody and McNab—or Feeney—can do runs like this, but other regions. If they find a similar pattern, if—I know it’s if—but if it’s the same organization, do they transport them here, or have those other locations? Other port cities, other transportation hubs? Or are they sticking to this region?
“The more data,” she continued as Roarke removed the domes from the plates, “the better.”
On the plate she saw a colorful pasta salad—some of the color came from vegetables, but she’d handle them. In addition, he’d come up with some sort of fish (she thought) that looked a little burned.
“AC going wonky?”
“It’s blackened swordfish. You should like the heat.”
“Maybe. Who decided to eat some fish with a sword? You have to wonder if the first guy who caught one thought: Holy shit, this damn fish has a sword.”
“En garde,” he said, and made her laugh before she sampled it.
“Okay, I can see why he decided it was worth it.”
Before he could do it for her, as he invariably did, she broke one of the rolls in half, offered it.
“Thanks. I’ve done some categories of my own. Small office buildings, keeping it to twelve floors and under. Warehouses, converted or others. Factories—same there. Businesses attached to same that may serve as a front.”
He stabbed some pasta. “From there, we’ll look at ownership. Assuming this is a major, sophisticated operation, I lean toward ownership of the property. Renting or leasing leaves too many problems. The owner might opt to sell it out from under you, or send in agents for evaluation, inspections.”
She hadn’t thought of evals and all that, so nodded. “Okay, that makes sense. Owning a building like that in the city takes deep pockets.”
“Those or good financing. Once I see ownership, I can potentially eliminate.”
“How?”
“Well, I can certainly eliminate any I own. I hope you’d agree.”
“I can go with that.”
“I can also eliminate, or at least downgrade, any owned by people or groups I know well enough to know. Trust me on this,” he said when she frowned. “And there may be some that send up a flag for me. Because I know them to be on what you’d call the shady side of things. Others I may not know at all—I don’t know everyone, after all—and those I could look into more deeply.”
“It won’t be quick.”
“It won’t, no. As you’ve already learned from your own look, there are potentially hundreds of properties that might fit, and more yet that might fit after another round. If it’s attached to a business, a front, that front might run on perfectly legal means. It’s what I’d do in any case.”
Since he’d put it in front of her, she picked up her wine.
“You’d run a business out of the front. Sell something, or make something, run a small factory, whatever. Keep those books, pay those taxes, keep it clean. Behind it, you run the real business.”
“Exactly so. Smuggle the girls in, warehouse them, so to speak, and when you deem them ready for the market, sell and transport them out again. You’d need vehicles. Potentially boats or shuttles.”
“Long haul trucks hauling human cargo.”
“Possibly. Risky—road accidents, traffic stops. But possibly. Private air shuttles, if you have the funding, would be smarter and safer. And faster.”
“The victim’s shirt—good fabric, tailored to her size. The fancy silk underwear. No labels, and Harvo reports no match on any legit outlet with the same design, same materials. They have to have a tailor on board. Maybe the front’s something like that. Fabric and clothing?”
“I can look for that.” He considered. “It’s an angle. Front with something you already use or need, and make a legitimate business out of it to cover the rest.”
“Okay, yeah. What else do they use or need? Photography and vids. You’ve got to market the product. Maybe that, or selling equipment for it. Transportation. A fleet of trucks or vans, a delivery service, moving company. You have to deliver the product once sold, so invest in transpo—the vehicles, ships, shuttles—and do regular business to cover. Food or medical supplies. But those don’t fit as well,” she decided. “Perishable and trickier to license and run. Regular inspections required.”
“Agreed there. The business, if it exists, may be something completely unrelated. But, again, if I ran the operation, I’d prefer the double-dip and lower overhead.”
“If you factor that in, it narrows the field. Still a big-ass field, but we have to start somewhere.”
“Then I’ll do just that and get started. You’ve got the dishes.”
“Yeah, I got them.”
While Eve dealt with the dishes and thought through her next steps, Auntie rang the bell at the entrance of her partner’s stately Georgian mansion on Long Island.
She’d enjoyed the drive—he’d sent a limo, as always. She wore a formal gown, as he’d expect, and knew she looked her very best in the formfitting bold red and metallic silver. She wore diamonds, cold and white. This chapter of her career had proved profitable. Her hair, meticulously colored and styled in the Academy’s salon, swept back from her pampered face.
The techs on staff routinely eradicated any lines, smoothed the surface of that face, added fillers. While she’d never have the dewy freshness of nineteen, when she’d launched her career as an escort, her beauty remained, polished and perfect to her mind, at a ripe sixty-four.
The woman who opened the door wore a black skin suit, one that plunged deep between her breasts. The glittery choker at her throat ensured—with an electric jolt—that she didn’t step outside the house.
She wouldn’t, of course. Auntie had trained her personally five years before, and knew Raven—so named for her thick fall of black hair—devoted herself to her master.
“Good evening, Auntie.” The full lips coated with slick red dye curved in greeting. “You look stunning.”
“Thank you.”
Auntie glided into the soaring entrance hall with its desert-sand marble floors, its lavish gold-and-crystal chandeliers, its bold slashes of art.
The lush roses, white and pure, on the central table perfumed the air.
“Master will join you shortly. May I escort you to the parlor?”
“Of course.”
The parlor, lavish as the rest, held a white grand piano, a marble fireplace, divans, settees, oversize chairs, all in patterns of white on white. White roses flowed from vases; ornately framed mirrors of all shapes and sizes reflected the cold splendor of the room.
“Champagne, Auntie?”
“Please.” So saying, Auntie arranged herself on a divan and watched her former trainee lift the bottle from its bed of ice in gleaming silver, pour it into a flute.
Perfectly done, she thought, and congratulated herself.
“Is there anything else I can do to make you more comfortable while you wait?”
“No.” She flicked a hand. “You can go.”
“Enjoy your evening.”
She intended to. Her partner invariably served the finest wines and food perfectly prepared. Their long association benefitted them both.
Some bumps, of course, along the way. Including now the despicable, ungrateful girls. But a successful business accepted certain losses as part of doing that business. A certain percentage of trainees failed, and that was the reality of it.
She and her partner would discuss it all over dinner.
He’d been a client once, she mused. Long ago, and long ago he’d seen her potential. He’d financed her when she’d launched her own escort service.
A hugely successful one, one that had catered to the wealthy, the exclusive, the famous and infamous. That partnership had done exceedingly well.
Then the government legalized the sex trade—and regulated it. Those regulations, inspections, screenings, taxes cut deep into the profits.
Licensed companions, she thought, disgusted, as if you could license sex and passions and desires. But they had, so no more party packs of drugs to keep an escort fresh—and no more taking the cost—plus service charge—out of the fee. If a client got a little too rough, put some marks or dings on the rental, the girl filed a complaint—and her company had to pay the medical.
Oh, and the medical, she thought. Those steep monthly payments to ensure her stable passed all those annoying screenings.
Now and then, of course—rarely, but now and then—a client might do more than mark or ding. But that added on a hefty disposal fee.
No more of that, and no more standard confidentiality fees added on to the client’s bill.
Worse, many she’d brought in, groomed, trained, decided they no longer needed a madam, and struck out on their own.
Ah well, she thought as she sipped more champagne. When things change, the wise adjust. And innovate.
She heard him coming, angled toward the door, and smiled.
He wore black tie so well, she thought, and always had. Though he’d let his hair go white—and it suited him—it remained thick around a face that had weathered nearly seventy years very well.
It remained angular and sharp with hooded eyes of deep, dark brown. Though he stopped a few inches short of six feet, he had the presence of a tall man.
Perhaps it came from being born into wealth, then inheriting it all before he turned twenty-five.
Jonah K. Devereaux possessed a sharp and canny mind for business, and, she thought, whatever else he wished.
In their long association, she’d seen him burn through lovers—one literally, as he’d ordered the cottage in Switzerland where she’d fled to torched. With her inside.
Auntie admired his decisive ruthlessness, because it melded so well with her own.
Once, she’d bedded him—and others for his viewing pleasure—had jetted and sailed with him. While they remained genuinely fond of each other, their sexual relationship had ended some two decades before.
She knew she’d simply aged out of desirability for him in that regard, and cast no blame.
“Iris, my flower. How lovely you are.”
She rose so they kissed cheeks.
“How was Majorca?” she asked him.
“Warm. I wish you could have joined me, even for a few days.”
“As do I, but it’s all so busy right now.”
“What would I do without you handling all that busy? Let me get you more champagne.”
He topped off her glass, poured his own before lifting it.
“To friendship, and profit. Why don’t we sit, get this discussion out of the way so we can talk of more pleasant things over dinner.”
“Jonah.” She sighed as she sat. “I can’t tell you how angry and disappointed I am. I knew 238 posed some challenges, and I know I was well on the way to overcoming them.”
“You have a sense for these things.”
“I already had two buyers in mind for her. Ones who enjoy a bit of feisty, a touch of sass. We’d already started the marketing plan for her. But 232? The lying bitch.”
Closing her eyes a moment, Auntie held up a hand. “You know I try not to take it personally when one of them doesn’t meet expectations. But honestly, I feel duped. It doesn’t go down well.”
“It’s a rare occurrence.”
“Clearly they plotted together. I blame 238 entirely there. She had a slyness in her, and I admit I admired it to a point.”
“They have her name, her face. The media as well as the authorities.”
“Yes, I know. We should consider that an advantage. I have hunters out, naturally. I expect she’ll run, far and fast, another advantage. With her history, she’d never go to the police, and if they manage to find her, her history and her blood on that wretched 232 go against her.”
“Is there any way she could lead them to the Academy?”
“I don’t see how. She was unconscious and contained when brought in, as is SOP. They fled through the tunnels, a considerable distance. We believe we know where they came out, and in a rainstorm—another advantage. Clearly, she’d already run, leaving 232 to fend for herself.”
Auntie drank again. “Just another street rat, one who killed a foolish runaway for her shoes. Even if they suspect abduction on 232’s part, there’s no trace to us, and the results are the same.”
“It’s a concern.”
“Yes, but one we’ll manage. If the police find her—and I very much doubt it—the network will hear, and we’ll deal with her. With no family behind her, she’ll be forgotten quickly. This is a bump in the road, darling Jonah. We’ve had them before.”
“Haven’t we though?” He laughed, then leaned over to kiss her cheek. “Adds the spice, doesn’t it? Smooth gets boring after a while, and I do enjoy the spice. And the hall matron? The medical?”
“Both terminated. I won’t tolerate that sort of incompetence on staff.”
“I told you investing in the crematorium would pay for itself, and more.”
“You did. I should always leave the investment decisions in your hands. I have a candidate for the medical position. We’re screening and vetting her now.”
“And I leave the staffing decisions to you. Which reminds me, I’m ready to trade in Athena. No fault of hers, really, but she’s becoming a bit of a bore. It’s time for a change there.”
“Of course. I’ll need to check the records, but she’s … about twenty-five, twenty-six now?”
He didn’t have a taste for the Kiddies or Chicklets, she thought as she tried to form a mental picture of his current sex slave.
“You’d know better than I.”
“I’ll take a look at her before I leave, get an estimate of value in a trade. Tell me what you’re looking for as a replacement.”
“Oh, perhaps something a bit more interesting. Something with some of that spice.”
“I’ll check the market. With the auction coming up, we can work a deal, especially since you prefer the experienced, slightly older type.”
“Send me one to try out.” He patted her hand. “Let’s go into dinner. I’m famished.”
Eve added more girls to the pattern. When she hit twenty, she started a second board and transferred all of them there.
She shifted regions and began again.
She was about to get up, just walk off the sitting, when her ’link signaled.
Willowby.
“Dallas. What have you got?”
“I’ve been cruising the dregs. EDD deepened my cover, so I moved up a few slots. I’m getting some chatter about an auction, a major one, multiple sellers. And a couple of them did some previews, like advanced marketing.”
“Do you have faces?”
“A few. Like I said, a preview. I’ve got two—so far—in our age group. One Chicklet, and one Ripe. Ripe’s like fifteen to twenty, maybe twenty-two, depending. One Full Flower—those usually go up to maybe thirty, usually for trades or a tagalong. Ripe and Full Flower go as Breeders, depending.”
Jesus, Eve thought, but only nodded. “Let’s see the ones from our age range. Let’s start there. I’ve got twenty-odd potentials. Maybe we’ll get a match.”
“Sending now. Can you send me yours? I can look out for them as the marketing gears up.”
“Yeah.”
When they exchanged data, Eve studied the photos on her screen.
“The second girl—the blonde,” Eve said. “They changed her hair—cut it, dyed it. But I’ve got her. Jaci—J-a-c-i—Collinsworth, age twelve, Detroit, missing since April. The first one hasn’t popped for me yet, but I’ll run her through.”
“Got it, I’ll pull her file and dig in.”
“When’s the auction?”
“We’ve got three days. If I can work it, I’ll get some shipping, transfer, and/or delivery locations. Problem there is, a winning bidder gets a special code sent to their comp to access that data. We can spread it out, bid on some, but we’re never going to get them all that way. Most of these buyers are going to be plenty rich and plenty savvy, so they’ll get around CompuGuard like it was nothing. It ain’t that much anyway.
“We can bust some of the dumbasses, but what we’re after? They’re not going to sell to the dumbasses.”
“Let me think about that.” Eve glanced toward Roarke’s office, then glanced at the time. “Pretty late, Willowby.”
“Is it? I guess. Or it’s considered late if I had anything resembling a social life. Which, at the moment, I don’t. More, I want to get these fuckers, Lieutenant.”
“We’re going to. Lots of little cracks now, and little cracks make big breaks. Keep in touch.”
“Count on it.”
Eve sat, studying Jaci’s photo.
“Did those bastards bring you in from Detroit, or did you get scooped up by some other asshole? Cut your hair, made you a blonde, painted you up so they can sell you to the highest bidder.
“We’ll fucking see about that.”
“Eve.”
“Jesus! Make some noise!”
He’d come up behind her, and now laid his hands on her shoulders, rubbed at the knots.
“All of those?” He nodded at the new board.
“Yeah, going with the pattern. The one on-screen? Willowby got wind of an upcoming auction, and she’s one of the previews. I had her, so we matched her.”
He kept rubbing, felt her give a bit under his hands. “I have roughly eighty properties that hit the highest probability. Another twenty or so that skim just under.”
“Still a lot, but more workable. Send them to me, okay?”
“I will. One hour more. It’s near to midnight now.”
“Willowby said three days. We find Gregg, pinpoint the location, bust down this auction, or Christ knows how many get sold. This kid, this one who played softball and the piano, sure as hell will be.”
“An hour more,” he repeated, “and you’ll push through it tomorrow.”
She swiveled toward him. “They send the buyer a code. You have to buy to get it, and it gives you the pickup or delivery info. She said for ones like this one? You’re going to be rich and tech savvy—or have the tech savvy at your disposal to get through CompuGuard.”
He sat on her counter. “You’re thinking of using the unregistered, and fine enough, but you could hardly buy them all.”
“One, just one, if it comes to that. We get a code, we track it back to the source. Put the auction site out of business, get their data.”
“Track the girls, the sellers, other buyers. Possibly,” he said. “The site won’t have a location, not a physical one you’ll track. It’ll be mobile for the very reasons you’ve outlined.”
“EDD set Willowby up as a potential buyer. They can do a couple more, you do a couple.” She shut her eyes. “And an operation like the one I’m after is going to be really careful about new buyers. We’d need a lot more than three days to set up solid bona fides. Shit.”
“Your brain’s tired. We’ll think about it more when it’s not, see if we can work something. I’ll talk to Feeney, bat it around a bit. It may be we can work it another way.”
“What other way?”
“We’ll work on it.”
“Is your brain tired?”
“Tired enough.”
“Can I see your results? Just run them through with me, and we’ll call it.”
“There’s a deal.” He reached around her, keyed something. “On-screen,” he ordered. “All right then. The first, a pre-Urban factory in the Garment District.”
They went through them all, and though they ran over the hour, he thought she’d sleep easier for it.
Sebastian didn’t. He sat in what he thought of as the family room—a jumble of furniture in a space that had once served as a lobby.
He’d seen the media reports with Dorian’s face flashing over the screen. The fact Eve Dallas, a murder cop, looked for her, termed her a material witness in the violent death of another child, worried him.
He’d promised Dorian she could stay, and he intended to keep his word to her. He doubted many others had kept theirs to her in her short life. But with Dallas on the hunt, that promise carried considerable weight.
More, if she hunted Dorian, others—much less concerned with law and order—might hunt as well. And that put them all at risk.
Even as he considered options, alternatives, precautions, she wandered out.
He set the book he hadn’t been able to focus on aside. “Can’t sleep?”
“I had these dreams. I can’t even remember, they were all mixed up. Maybe I could sit out here for a while.”
“All right. It’s what I do sometimes when I can’t sleep. Like tonight.”
She took a couch covered with wild orange flowers someone had set on the curb.
Tall for her age, he thought, and very, very lean. Even with her sleepy eyes and disordered hair, she made a picture.
“You like to read books?”
“I do,” he told her. “Do you?”
“We got to read them on a tablet in school. But I never brought mine home.”
“Why not?”
She yawned hugely. “She’d’ve sold it, probably. I don’t want to ever go back there. I don’t know what happened to my backpack. I had it when I left.”
Memories eking back, he thought. Piece by piece.
“When you left home?”
“Uh-huh. I had my stuff in it, and some money. Enough for the bus. I had to get farther than I had before, so I took the bus. I told a lady I was going to visit my grandma. I don’t really have one, but I can lie good when I have to.”
“Where did you go?”
“I … went to Staten Island first. I needed to get more money, and I found a basement to stay in awhile. A guy chased me out, but I still had my backpack. I had it when I got to New York. I like it here. Except…”
“Except what?”
“I don’t know … They lock the doors. I don’t like when they lock the doors. I don’t want to think about it.”
Because she’d curled into a ball, Sebastian didn’t press. He’d have to, he knew, but not tonight.
“Why don’t I read to you? I can start the book from the beginning.”
“What’s it about?”
He smiled. “Let’s find out.”